Dear Heart

Dear Heart,

(a letter to my heart and any other heart in need)

 

The absence of romantic, sexual, intimate love that you are currently experiencing is not a sign of your inadequacy, nor of your unworthiness. You are worthy of healthy, whole, reciprocal love. One day you may find it, or perhaps it will find you. Take a moment to remember you chose this path, and there is purpose in it. Solitude and loneliness are great teachers. Take a moment to acknowledge the abundance, the multitude of forms, of love in your life. Love is all around you just waiting for you to notice, to enjoy, and to pass on. Conjure all you have to give your phantom lovers–your fierce passion, your warmth, your softness, your playfulness, your strength, your pleasure, your touch, your humor, your fantasy, your special sauce, your everything–and let it rain down on your being in a quenching, nourishing, ecstatic flow. No one else owns your love. Though others may ignite and inspire your love, it is yours and it belongs only to you dear heart.

I am drawn

(for my unsung muses, and in honor of eros)

 

I am drawn to you

as I am drawn to water,

to river and ocean.

 

Your allure,

it seeps subtle, into flesh and bone,

into thoughts and dreams,

knowing not boundaries of distance, nor time.

 

Your allure,

it electrifies my senses.

It awakens the unspoken.

 

I long to immerse my body in your waters,

to swim your strong currents,

to be held in moments of stillness.

I yearn to feel permeated,

to cleanse and be cleansed.

 

I could surrender to your waters,

so cool, deep, and dark,

so soothing

to one who burns.

I could let your waters take my life.

 

But we are not adversaries,

and I am not here to offer up my life.

We are energies capable of joining, elementally–

magma flowing to meet oceanic waves.

We together would be

a crashing, transforming,

warming, cooling,

sighing, steaming union,

creating future fertile ground for regeneration.

Parts of Her

Parts of her are held.

Parts of her are held together.

Parts of her are held together by stories.

Stories inhabit her cells

shape her thoughts

form her identity

radiate her heart

haunt her spirit.

 

She belongs to some,

and some belong to her.

Others have traveled from beyond.

All are interwoven,

all are calling,

all are longing,

some are begging–

to be recalled

to be told

to be heard

to be released.

 

If she tells,

who will listen?

If she tells,

who will believe?

If she tells,

who will keep her stories?

 

 

Will her telling be a mending?

An unraveling?

Or, will her telling be an unraveling and a mending?

 

She understands her questions are ancient–

that there is no knowing,

that there will be no reassurance.

The answers will come

when she begins–

and as with all beginnings,

her voice must rise from the dark silence of the unknown.

 

Winter Solstice

Winter took my hand and said,

All your plans,

all your ambitions,

your obligations

and best intentions,

all your hopes,

your burdensome fear and anxiety–

set them down now.

Let them rest now.

Follow me

into the dark depths,

of world,

of winter,

of self.

Bring the burning embers

of your inner fire.

Open your heart, again.

Open your heart, again.

Allow the questions to enter.

Let some sift and settle.

Let others go.

For an eternal moment,

hold yourself outside of time.

Feel the convergence of past, present and future–

tributaries of the river of you,

flowing always into the vast sea of existence.

Your first task is to learn to belong,

as heron belongs to stillness,

as eagle belongs to the winds,

as fox to shadow and vision,

as coyote to improvisation.